Hiding My Heart
by blaanderstark
Summary: Stiles is calculating in his head how much bigger this kid is than him when he's suddenly lifted off of the ground and thrown into the lone dumpster behind the school. "Now you're where you belong." Stiles briefly wonders if Danny gets this same treatment before realizing that Jackson would have their heads. full summary inside
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Stiles is calculating in his head how much bigger this kid is than him when he's suddenly lifted off of the ground and thrown into the lone dumpster behind the school. "Now you're where you belong." Stiles briefly wonders if Danny gets this same treatment before realizing that Jackson would have their heads.

Because everyone likes Danny. No one really cares about Stiles the way Jackson cares about Danny.

* * *

That summer everything changes. Despite Scott's protests he begins to work a lot more _with _Derek's pack once the Alpha Pack is made known to-well to everyone with prior knowledge of the existence of werewolves, plus Danny. Because let's be honest you can't really keep much from Danny for long (he may be cute, but he's not clueless like Scott is), and the only one who can seem to deal with Jackson when Lydia _can't _is Danny. While he takes it all in stride, Stiles (and Derek) can see the familiar uneasiness in his eyes about the situation, but he warms up to the entire thing quickly enough. After all, it's _Jackson_, and there's nothing Danny wouldn't do for him.

The Alpha Pack hasn't struck, but Stiles thinks it's only a matter of time before they make their presence known. While he sort of trusts Derek now and he regularly puts his life in Scott's hands way too often, he's not sure (even with Peter) that they're ready for this challenge. But summer is relatively quiet regardless; Danny knows, Lydia finally understands the entire situation (and smacks Stiles, and then Jackson, for not telling her), and there's a quiet calmness that blankets over Beacon Hills, something that, usually talkative Stiles, is incredibly grateful for. His dad works longer shifts and spends more time away from home, but it suits Stiles just fine to have the entire day all to himself to do as he pleases; especially after the hellacious year he's had.

Stiles finds himself telling everyone who will listen that he plans to continue his efforts in making Lydia his girlfriend. And while naive, clueless Scott takes the information with a smile and a show of support (and then bounds off to meet with Isaac only seconds after his great proclamation), Lydia isn't so blind. She sees the finality in his eyes. Whatever relationship he was trying to forge was something of the past. She offers to be friends, partners in crime whenever the pack needs them; it's easy for him to say yes because he _did_ love this girl for so long. He still loves her, of course, he's just not sure it's in the same way anymore. Too much has happened. While Scott is mending his relationship with his mom and trying to help Allison cope, Lydia and Stiles are hanging out. He finds that she's surprisingly smart when he's not chasing after her and when she's not being a snob.

He isn't forging any special bonds with the pack, but he sees that Isaac and Erica _are_ trying to include him more. He doesn't think Derek's said anything to them about it, but he doesn't quite understand why they'd ever be doing it on their own. They're protective of each other, but they (Scott, unfortunately, included) aren't protective of Stiles.

Derek is-well he wasn't being _nicer_ per say, but spending more free time with the pack gives Stiles a glimpse into what Derek is like when it wasn't a life or death situation. And it _is_ nice. He's different with them when they're just hanging out and being as close to normal as they can get. Derek seems to bond more easily with Isaac than he does any of the other betas, but Stiles isn't entirely surprised. They both have a lot in common, losing their family-wise. Stiles knows it's only a matter of time before Jackson accepts his place and is brought into the I-have-dead-or-missing-parents fold. He's surprised, however, that _none_ of this surprises him.

Jackson is a completely and utterly different topic of conversation. While the rest of them _seem_ to want Stiles around in at least _some_ capacity, Jackson is still his usual asshole self. It _doesn't_ really surprise him, but it kind of hurts considering he's already saved Jackson's life a handful of times, and even Erica and _Boyd_ are warming up to him (Erica may or may not enjoy snuggling next to Stiles on the couch while they watch movies more than she does with Boyd, but she'll never admit it and she promises to rip Stiles' throat out if he ever repeats that sentence again to anyone). Lydia tries to explain Jackson to him the best she can, but she doesn't do a very good job (and okay, yeah, Stiles understands that being adopted kind of can come as a shock, but it doesn't give you the right to be a complete asshole all of the time. And at least he _has_ two loving parents, regardless of their biology).

He has a dream about Jackson, Lydia, and him as little kids running around the Stilinski backyard. There are flickers of moments between the three; there's laughter and cookies and _his mom _is there smiling and telling he and Jackson that one day they'll become such wonderful young men. He wakes up in tears, but he's not even sure why. He walks around in a bit of a daze, something that always happens the day after he dreams of his mom, but it's different this time because he doesn't_ remember _any of this. He doesn't remember ever being _friends_ with Jackson or Lydia. He doesn't remember playing tag or eating cookies. He doesn't remember his mom looking so fondly at them. It's so vivid of a dream that it has to be real, has to be a memory and not something he's invented in his head.

Later that night his dad is sitting at the table, folders from work spread out in front of him, and he looks busy so Stiles isn't sure he should even _bother_ him with any of this. Why bring up a subject so hard and hurtful to talk about as his mom? He doesn't even look up from his work as Stiles calls out to him, but he hums in response.

Stiles bites down on his lower lip, suddenly more nervous even after all of the times he's practiced this conversation in his head upstairs in his room, "Did-" he huffs, angry with himself because he can't just blurt out the words like he wants to, so he shakes his head and mumbles, "Never mind."

"Stiles," he turns back to look at his father when he reaches the door between the kitchen and the dining room; he's staring at him now, the papers and folders in front of him forgotten and a look of worry etched onto his face. "What do you need?"

"I had," Stiles drops down onto a chair across from his father. "I had a dream about mom." They sit in silence for a few minutes before the Sheriff drops his pencil onto the kitchen table and reaches to grab for Stiles' hand. When he squeezes Stiles' hand it only reassures him that much more, and so he asks, "Did we ever have Lydia and Jackson come over? When mom was-"

His dad furrows his eyebrows and Stiles is instantly sorry that he ever brought up the topic of conversation, especially when they so rarely talk about anything anymore, "You mean before she passed away?" Stiles nods apprehensively and his father sighs. "When you were little they were here most afternoons, mostly because Jackson's parents worked a lot. She watched him on days that his parents would work late. You, Lydia, and Jackson spent most of your time outside playing. Jackson would have dinner here and then his parents would come and take him home. It doesn't surprise me that you don't remember, Stiles, you were a toddler when your mom started watching him during the afternoons, and then Jackson's mom stopped working all day when you were six."

He's a little vindicated that the dream isn't a dream, but a memory (though he's still not sure how much of it was real). He doesn't have any more dreams, not about Jackson or Lydia (which is kind of strange) or his mother; not until a large senior purposefully aims for Stiles in the hallway and shoulders him into a set of lockers. Jackson is only standing a few feet away retrieving books from his locker, but despite Derek's 'pack is pack and you protect pack' speech Jackson turns on his heels and walks in the opposite direction as if nothing had ever happened.

Later that night Stiles dreams of sitting at their kitchen counter with Jackson; his mom is making them a snack, singing and humming along with the radio. She looks beautiful and carefree and it's almost like an out of body experience for Stiles because the younger Stiles leans over to ask Jackson if they'll always be friends. Little Jackson nods and before he can respond Stiles' mother smiles at the two of them from her place at the sink.

"Well of course you're always going to be friends, sweetheart. Jackson will take care of you and you'll take care of Jackson; that's what friends do."

"Always?" Little Stiles' asks his mom; his eyes widen at the thought of there _being_ an always, because 'always and forever' is a long time to a six year old little boy with zero concept of time.

"Always," Little Jackson concurs with a large grin that eerily mimics the one he still sports even today.

Stiles is again shaking and crying when he wakes up. He doesn't register that his dad is rubbing his back at first. It isn't until the next morning that he realizes that he'd been crying because of a lost friendship that he doesn't even remember as much as he had been crying over his mom.

* * *

Stiles spends half of the next day wondering if Jackson remembers the conversation and the other half wondering if it wasn't a memory and just his subconscious grasping at straws.

Stiles is grateful that no one harasses him for a few weeks. Everyone is too distracted by midterms, and Stiles finds himself alone in his own room studying. Most of the pack has been studying in groups at Derek's newly renovated house in the woods, but Stiles still doesn't feel like he _fits_ there. Scott and Allison get back together, both agreeing to take their second time around much more slow than the last (something he's sure that Chris Argent is grateful for), and he's proud of his friend for deciding to take the relationship slowly this time. They hold hands and do sappy things together again, but it doesn't bother Stiles as much as it once did. It's hard not to like Allison especially when she's not crazy and trying to kill or maim them all. She even begins to seem comfortable around Derek, and vice versa, which is a feat in itself.

It's around November that Stiles confides in Lydia. He's fidgety and nervous, but he needs to tell _someone_ because if he doesn't say it out loud he's going to explode.

He says it in a jumble of words, "I don't think I like _just_ girls. Did you know we used to be best friends when we were kids?"

She smiles, softly, and just looks at him for a moment, "My mom has a picture in one of our photo albums of us—" she moves to grab a big black book from her bookshelf and sits on her bed next to Stiles. She shows him a picture, it's a bit worn at the edges despite still being under plastic, but it's clear who the four children are. Stiles is in the middle with Jackson to one side, Lydia on the other, and Danny's arm around Jackson's shoulder. They're all five, maybe six, years old and smiling. "My mom says that your mom took this and sent her and Jackson's mom a copy. I think Danny might have one too."

"I've never seen this before," Stiles whispers, touching the page briefly before allowing Lydia to return the book to her bookshelf. "We used to be _friends_ and I didn't even know it."

"We're friends though now, right?"

"Are we?" Stiles asks, honestly wanting to know.

"Sure," Lydia beams; she pulls Stiles into a hug that both reassures and terrifies him, because god help him, having Lydia as a best friend just might kill him quicker than any Alpha pack ever could.

They talk a lot more. They get coffee and read the same books (Lydia _doesn't_ like Twilight, but had said so to fit in) and talk about things that he just can't say to Scott. He talks a lot about how confused he feels about his sexuality, and she gives shockingly good advice. Jackson joins them on occasion (and bitches and moans the entire time), but it's Danny who tags along more often than not. Stiles isn't comfortable telling anyone else that he may or may not like guys yet, but he sort of feels safe telling Danny.

In the end it all just bites him in the ass anyway.

The same senior from weeks earlier finds him again after school and okay Stiles is pretty sure that he's targeting him specifically now, knocking him back into the brick wall just outside of the school and hissing "_fag_" at him with such malice and hatred in his eyes. He blinks back the tears that are threatening to fall and he's hoping to reign them in long enough to make it to his Jeep. He passes kids in groups, all laughing and pointing at him like he's been turned into some sideshow at the circus, and the senior calls out to him again but he blocks the noise when he slams his car door shut. He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself before putting his Jeep into drive; his mind is flooding with words of hatred towards himself and _betrayalstupidhowcouldyou _aimed at everyone else_._

He cries on the floor of his shower, long shuddering sobs that make his chest ache and his face hurt when he finally exits and dries off his skin until it's rough and red and painful. He ignores Lydia's texts, Danny's phone calls, and falls face first onto his bed, burying himself down under the comforter and pressing the pillow over the back of his head.

He should have known better than to trust anyone in the first place.

When he wakes it's still dark outside, but he can see a sliver of the sun beginning to rise in the distance. He checks the time on his phone and notices that he has dozens of missed texts and calls from Danny, Lydia, Scott and even Allison and Isaac. He checks to make sure his door and his window are locked before going to take another shower. He just wants to scrub and scrub his skin until the previous day washes away completely. Stiles manages to convince his dad that he's sick (which isn't entirely difficult because his nose is runny and his face looks puffy from crying, but he passes it off as a sinus infection and sore throat), and he stays home from school. He continues to ignore his phone and the sandwich and plate of chips that his dad leaves him for dinner.

That night, though, is when his father sits down at the edge of the bed, presses a hand to Stiles' back, and sighs, "This isn't the flu or some cold is it? Did something happen at school? Did you get into a fight with Scott?" Stiles sniffles, shaking his head, because he doesn't trust himself not to blurt it all out the second he opens his mouth to respond _no_. "You're scaring me, Stiles, you haven't acted like this since your mom."

And because the last thing he wants to do is scare or worry his dad anymore than he already has (_you're a terrible son, your mother would be _ashamed, _his brain supplies him_), he showers and goes to school the next morning. His mind isn't present and it takes more work than he thought it would take to avoid Danny, Lydia, _and_ the senior who had been body slamming him into hard surfaces. Danny is easy to avoid, because they only have two classes together and they don't sit anywhere near one another and by the time he even _moves_ from his seat Stiles is out the door and half way down the hall. Lydia is another story. They sit next to each other in two classes and are within whispering distance in the other two. She's talking to him, asking him questions, asking him about the scene in front of the school, and giving him her best I'm-concerned-about-you face, but he faces the teacher and tries to focus on William Shakespeare. He can't avoid Scott, mostly because Scott is Scott and he's also his best friend. But when Scott asks if he's okay (and ever so _subtly_ asks about the rumors, are they true, Stiles, are the rumors _true_?), Stiles says that he's fine, it was just the flu. Scott believes him and Stiles thanks whatever god exists that Scott is a naïve person who has yet to learn how to fully use his wolf powers.

* * *

"You can't keep running away from me forever, you freak," the senior says as he corners him on his way to the lacrosse field. He'd planned to skip lunch and Calculus and sit on the bleachers by the field for some Stiles-time. _Best laid plans,_ Stiles thinks to himself as he faces down the jock pining him back against the dumpster. He is much, much bigger than him. Stiles is calculating in his head how much bigger this kid is than him when he's suddenly lifted off of the ground and thrown into the lone dumpster behind the school. "Now you're where you belong." Stiles briefly wonders if Danny gets this same treatment before realizing that Jackson would have their heads.

Because everyone likes Danny. No one really cares about Stiles the way Jackson cares about Danny.

He hears the bell in the distance, muffled by boxes of used school supplies and trash from the first lunch hour, and knows that everyone is leaving the cafeteria and heading to their next class. He and Scott are supposed to be going to Calculus, but he can't really show up smelling like a—well like a _dumpster_ so he drives home. What he doesn't expect is his dad sitting at the kitchen table looking at an array of new folders.

"Stiles?"

"Hey. Hi, sorry, I need a change of clothes and yeah I know I smell like I walked through a dumpster, which is because I did. Walk through a dumpster. They're surprisingly great places to think about life and such, which you wouldn't think they were, right? Because it's disgusting down there and people throw their _garbage_ in there."

"Stiles," his father has already moved out of his seat at the table approaching Stiles, eyes full of concern. "What happened?"

"Nothing. It's fine. It's nothing. It's nothing I can't handle, I swear," Stiles says and his dad reaches out a hand to wipe the tears Stiles doesn't even know that he was crying. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, dad, I'm so sorry."

* * *

**A/N:** it's just easier to follow my tumblr or my AO3 account because FFnet is a piece of crap format-wise and ugh. yes. you get all the fun author's notes over there :)


	2. Chapter 2

It isn't easy explaining anything to his dad lately. The last two years have been so full of lies that Stiles isn't even sure where to begin. It was an incredibly long story, and there was a chance that his dad wouldn't even believe him; if it was reversed Stiles probably wouldn't believe him either. Instead, he curls against his father's chest, sobs coming out faster and harder than he's ever let them before. One minute they're in the foyer, Stiles smelling of dirt and filth and the next he's showered and in his favorite blue pajamas being tucked into his father's bed (_his father's "I don't want you to be alone right now" turns into "I don't trust you to be alone right now" in Stiles' mind)_. He burrows himself deep in the warmth of his father's duvet and sighs; he doesn't have to be a werewolf to know his own father's scent. It's a mixture of aftershave, forbidden-by-Stiles dark roast coffee, and the peppermint gum they both keep in their pockets at all time. Neither really likes the flavor, but it had been his mom's favorite for years.

Stiles considers telling his dad everything; everything about Scott and Jackson and Peter freaking Hale, and how Derek is the Alpha, and _werewolves are actually real, dad, don't give me that look_. He wonders how long it will take for his father to laugh, to call up the loony bin and admit him for paranoid delusions. His brain is going a mile a minute until his dad crawls into the other side of the bed, and then all of the stress and anxiety washes away long enough for him to succumb to some much needed sleep.

"It'll be okay," his dad whispers, one hand rubbing Stiles' shoulder blades when he starts crying in his sleep. "I promise you that, Stiles, it's going to be okay. We'll figure this out together in the morning."

* * *

The next morning comes way too soon; the sunlight peaks through the window early and it takes Stiles a few moments to blink and remember why he's waking up in his dad's room. His father's side of the bed is empty and cold, and there's a pang of guilt in Stiles' chest when he realizes that he must have woke up early to try to piece what happened together without him.

Stiles decides he's going to tell his dad; not everything, not about the werewolves or Derek or anything remotely related to fur and claws unless it has to do with a Halloween costume or a certain 1980's movie starring Michael J. Fox. He is, however, going to tell him about the senior harassing him. His dad is the _sheriff_, which has to count for _something._

He pulls back the covers, uses the bathroom, and then pads downstairs in his pajamas to find his dad sitting at the kitchen table with a pot and two mugs of coffee. Neither of them looks well rested and his dad sighs when he sees him.

"I hoped you'd sleep a little longer. I called the school and let them know you wouldn't be there today," his dad says and pours him a cup of coffee once Stiles sits down.

Stiles bites his bottom lip hard, "I _want_ to talk to you."

"I know."

Stiles shakes his head quickly so the tears won't start falling again, "I don't know _how_."

"Just start from the beginning, Stiles."

"I don't just like Lydia. Which obviously, despite my passionate affection towards her, that would be worrisome and weird because she's not _my_ soulmate, at least not anymore. She's Jackson's soulmate as stupid and messed up as that actually is they kind of fit together. But I don't just like Lydia. And I kind of confided in her and Danny. About the not just liking her thing. And the maybe I might like guys too thing and then it all just—" he lays his head down on the kitchen table, the wood cool against his forehead. "I don't know why or how he knows, but he _knows_ and he's the one who hoisted me into the dumpster during lunch yesterday. I'm sorry. This is all my fault and I feel like some little kid who needs his daddy to help him with his problems, but he just won't _stop_ harassing me."

Stiles takes a deep breath and lifts his forehead from the table slowly. His dad is blinking, shock and anger settling on the corner of his lips and on the wrinkles of his forehead. "What else has this kid done?"

"Just—just shoving me into lockers," Stiles says shakily. "Calling me names."

His dad nods thoughtfully, "Do you know his name?"

"He's a football player and I've seen him at school, but," Stiles shakes his head, a brand new wave of tears falling. "No I don't know his name. Can I just be homeschooled now?"

"I'm going to head over today to talk to your principle and guidance counselor and see just what the hell is going on, okay? You stay here. Do your homework."

Stiles nods, watching as his father gathers his coat and keys. He's at the door when he suddenly turns around to look back at Stiles, "Where the hell have you friends been? Where has Scott and Lydia and the rest of your friends been during all of this?"

Stiles shrugs and simply says, "Busy."

* * *

Nothing gets done. Despite the pull and sway Sheriff Stilinski holds over the town of Beacon Hills there is no evidence that any of the students have been harassing Stiles, and therefore the school can't legally do anything to punish Drew Stevens. Even though Stiles has a name to place with the jock's big ugly face, it doesn't help or comfort him.

He's out of school the entire week. He does the homework they send home with his father all in one day; his dad takes it back the next morning on his way to work. The house is mostly silent. There's no communication from Scott or Lydia or even _Allison_. None of the other werewolves have said anything either, and the one time someone shows up to check on him, it's Danny at the door, and Stiles begs and pleads with his father for a full five minutes to make up an excuse as to why he couldn't come to the door. Stiles had hoped he'd like the silence, but it only makes him miss Lydia and Scott and _school _that much more.

* * *

His first day back to school causes an argument between his father and Stiles. His father, the loving protective Sheriff, wants him to stay home and hide; Stiles just wants to finish high school alive and go to college far away where no one knows him. His first day back to school is also marred by the glares Drew Stevens and the rest of his jock friends give him. There's no physical contact, no body slams into any brick walls or metal lockers, but Stiles knows what's coming. He knows eventually things will die down and people will forget, and that's when they'll strike—when Stiles is least expecting it. So he's sort of not even a little surprised when a large hand grabs the back of his shirt and begins pulling him backwards down the corridor towards what he thinks is the boys' locker room. He can hear people in front of them laughing.

"Your father threatened me. I don't take too kindly to threats, Stilinski. I may not be able to _touch you_ right now without being suspended or expelled, but there's one thing I can do," Drew smirks at him, Drew's friends crowding closer towards Stiles. Drew shoves Stiles backwards and he stumbles back into the sports equipment storage close. Drew bolts and locks the door after he slams it shut. "Coach is out sick with the flu so lacrosse won't have their regularly scheduled practice tonight, and since we've already had _our_ practice at lunch no one will find you until tomorrow night at the earliest. Because no one gives a damn about what happens to you. Sweet dreams, Stilinski."

There's a moment where they all laugh, cackling at their own jokes and humor, and then there's dead silence, except for Stiles' own panicked breathing. He slides to the floor, his back pressed against the wall, and tries to blink away the tears threatening to fall. He calms himself down enough to stop hyperventilating and check for his cellphone, but quickly remembers that he left his in the inside of his coat. Which is conveniently in his locker.

* * *

When Stiles doesn't come home for dinner, Jonathan Stilinski calls Scott. There's no answer, so he waits until the clock hits ten before he starts calling everyone else his son knows or has ever met. He calls Lydia last, hoping that Stiles went to her house for comfort, but finds her even more worried about Stiles' than him.

"One of the jocks overheard us talking about some private things and they're using that to—I haven't seen him since school. I've wanted to apologize—I thought he was just in a hurry to get home."

"If you hear from him—"

"I'll call you."

He stays up, pacing back and forth across the living room floor until early the next morning. His stomach churns as the sunrises and Stiles still isn't safe at home in his own bed. He's gone from normal parental worry to completely terrified overnight. He heads down towards the school once classes are set to begin, and he corners the principle on his way inside. There are kids filing into the school through the main entrance, but Jonathan's main worry is his son.

"My son has been missing for twelve hours," he says, angry, because this is _their fault_ for not protecting his boy. _His son._

"Isn't this something you'd take up with your own department, Sheriff?" the principle asks, and it takes everything that Jonathan has not to slam the man's head into the nearest wall.

"My son was terrified to come back to school yesterday, but he was determined to prove that this was all okay even when it _isn't all okay._ You're supposed to protect him while he's here. So where the hell is he?"

"How do you know Mr. Stilinski didn't leave school grounds on his own accord?"

"Because he promised to be home straight after school."

The principle snorts, and the anger rolls off Jonathan in _waves_, "And Mr. Stilinski hasn't lied to you in the past?"

Scott intervenes, Jackson and Isaac in tow, before Jonathan can hit the principle and causes a scene. He jerks his arm away from Scott and growls at the back of the principle, "My son is _missing_ and—" the principle doesn't stop walking and the words die on the Sheriff's lips. "Damn it."

"Stiles is still missing?" Allison asks. He explains the situation, not about Stiles' sexual crisis, and he doesn't go into full detail on the bullying situation because those are his son's stories to tell, but he mentions everything else he knows. They're all off, immediately calling and searching, and while he's grateful for the help he feels like there's more going on that no one is explaining to him.

* * *

"Do you think something took him?"

"We would know if another werewolf took him."

"What about hunters? Maybe they took hi—"

"My _dad_ wouldn't take an _innocent_ teenager."

"_Enough!_" Derek roars, slamming his fists down onto the kitchen table. It's the one and only none burnt item in the Hale House. "He's been out of school all week and you're just now realizing that something is wrong?"

"He wouldn't talk to us," Scott says, but quiets when Lydia and Allison glares at him from across the table. He pouts and mumbles, "Well he wouldn't."

"He's been avoiding everyone," Lydia says forcefully. "It's our faults for not forcing it, and we will all apologize when we find him."

"The last place anyone saw him was the school so go sniff around there first. Try to find who the hell took him while you're at it," Derek grumbles angrily and he leaves, mysteriously, to do some searching of his own.

* * *

Jackson gets the first whiff of Drew's scent by Stiles' locker; he scrunches his nose in confusion. The two had had a confrontation weeks ago, but the strength of this scent proved that he had been leaning against Stiles' locker just hours before. He follows it from classroom to classroom, going on his own gut feeling. He checks each room, but doesn't find any blood or evidence that Stiles had ever been there.

He checks the locker room last. The scent is the strongest here, mixed with sweat and dirty socks and _Stiles_. He can _smell_ the tears and fear before he even unlocks the storage door. He doesn't need to open the door to know he'll find Stiles inside; the scent is radiating through the cracks in the sides of the door.

He finds him though, huddled in the corner, legs pulled up to his chest, and his face buried into his arms that are resting on top of his knees. He can hear Stiles' heart pounding hard against his chest, _he's terrified you idiot_, and the guilt bubbles up quickly in Jackson's stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN's are over at my AO3 account (which is now linked in my profile for those asking). Trigger warning for this chapter tho. **

* * *

"_Stilinski?" Jackson steps forward, but his actions only cause Stiles to press back against the wall as much as he can. "Stiles it's just—okay I know this isn't comforting or anything, it's just me. I'm not gonna hurt you."_

_When Stiles chances a look up at him Jackson can see that Stiles' eyes are shining with unshed tears, and he's shaking rather violently. Jackson manages to extract him from the storage closet, coaxing him out gently with soft words that are so foreign and unusual to him; he immediately thinks that Danny would be so much better at this comforting thing. He wraps his jacket around Stiles' shoulders and frowns; being outside of the closet only makes him more shaky and unstable so he helps Stiles sit down on the nearest bench. He quickly dials 911, not stopping to think about Stiles' father or Scott or Derek. Instead his eyes are focused on Stiles, who is shivering underneath Jackson's jacket and is as white as a sheet._

"_I think he's in shock," he tells the operator, and instead of answering their ridiculous questions, he gives them their location and hangs up his phone. "I'm going to get you something to drink, okay?" He tries to move away, but Stiles' stops him._

"_Jackson, don't—" Stiles swallows hard, and Jackson can feel a pain forming deep in his chest. It's as if someone has wrapped barbed wire around his entire upper body. His heart and lungs throb in pain, and wave after wave of emotion washes over him. _

When Stiles wakes up he's in a hospital bed, surrounded by four white walls; the only color in the entire room is the bouquet of flowers on the portable table and the blue of Jackson's hooded sweatshirt.

Jackson's not looking at Stiles; he's looking down at a piece of paper in his hands in confusion. Stiles can barely make out the lettering on the back of the paper, but he knows that handwriting anywhere; he can clearly see that the date and a list of names are scrawled across the back in Lydia's pristine handwriting. Stiles swallows, hard and thick from not drinking for so long, and Jackson practically jumps in shock at the small movement. He grabs Stiles a glass of water, and for the first time in so many years Stiles sees a sliver of a Jackson that is both kind and compassionate. Stiles savors it because he knows that it probably won't happen again.

"Derek said if I didn't stay here you'd probably freak out and have to be sedated again, so," Jackson shrugs. "Alpha wants, alpha gets."

"Eloquent as always. I'm fine, Jackson, you can go now."

"Couldn't even if I wanted to, Stilinski," Jackson glares, but his gaze holds no malice or anger; he's carrying a look that Stiles can't quiet pinpoint. "He told me to stay."

"Again?" Stiles asks quietly after a moment, but Jackson looks confused. "Sedated. _Again_?"

"_I think he's in shock," Jackson repeats, again and again, for the thousandth time as yet another person steps up to look at Stiles. First it's Stiles' dad, followed by Scott, sliding into the room at full speed and out of breath. Then, as the paramedics arrive, both he and Sheriff Stilinski proclaim the obvious at the same time. Stiles hasn't moved except for when someone has to help him, to remind him to keep moving his legs. Then once they've reached the emergency room door he's telling every nurse and doctor within a fifteen-foot radius to do something or else. They're shoved out of the way, pushed into a waiting room where they have to actually wait, and Jackson _hates_ waiting._

_Scott steps away first, presumably to call Allison and maybe Derek to give the pack updates; the Sheriff leaves next, first to ask questions at the nurse's desk that probably won't get him any answers and then to call the station. Jackson waits alone for fifteen minutes until he hears Lydia running through the hospital _two floors below them_, and he can feel how scared she is even that far away, but he also can sense her unmitigated rage. He waits and braces himself for the inevitable slap that he's bound to have coming to him. She's always so angry with _him_ for something._

_Instead she wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him close, whispering, "Oh thank god you found him" into his chest. Jackson's chest still aches, and when Derek and Isaac finally arrive to wait with them, Jackson can see that they're in equal amounts of pain as well._

Jackson ignores him; the question is better left for the Sheriff anyways, so he shrugs in response and drops the piece of paper onto the bed next to Stiles.

"What are you—what is that?"

"Lydia brought it," Jackson says and holds out the paper. Stiles half expects him to yank it back when he goes to reach for it, for him to laugh and taunt him like a petulant child, but Jackson holds it steady until it's resting firmly between Stiles' thumb and middle finger. Stiles recognizes the picture instantly. It's the exact same one that Lydia had shown him before. "She said she showed it to you."

Stiles nods and laughs, "Those were the good ol' days."

Jackson snorts, "Right. _Good_."

"I don't remember much of it, but at least my mom was _alive_."

"The pack is in pain because of you," Jackson says softly, he doesn't mean for it to come out as harsh as it does.

"Well I'm sorry for inconveniencing you," Stiles says with a huff and crosses his arms over his chest.

_The pressure on Jackson's chest doesn't lessen until Stiles is unconscious, sedated by god knows how many drugs the hospital has to give him. Jackson doesn't want to say anything, but he's kind of pissed at Stiles even if it isn't really his fault. He feels bad, of course, because no one deserves to be pushed around because of who they love, but he never considered Stiles Stilinski to be a friend, let alone part of Derek Hale's pack. Lydia shows him the picture of the four of them, and he honestly doesn't remember them being _friends_, per say, but he does remember Mrs. Stilinski and spending time with her at some point during his childhood. He just doesn't _have_ solid memories of it. He does feel like he's forgetting _something though_. He's just not sure what._

"_He's sleeping now," the Sheriff says with a long, drawn out sigh. "I think you kids should go home and get some rest yourself. There isn't much you can do right now."_

_Lydia, however, refuses to leave Stiles._

"_He didn't leave _me_ and I wasn't even _nice to him_ back then," she shrieks at Jackson when he tries to convince her to go home. "I'm not leaving him."_

"_God, Lyd, he's not even part of the damn pack!"_

_He only sees Lydia gaping at him, lips spread and eyes wide, for a split second before his body is slammed into the nearest wall._

"Damn it Stilinski, I'm _trying_ to be _nice_ here," Jackson says, grinding his teeth together angrily. "You'd think you'd have a little more appreciation for _saving your life._"

"Thank you. Job well done. _Bravo_. Kudos to you.. Good boy, Jackson, good boy," Stiles grits out. "Does the puppu want a treat? I would say 'sit, stay, good boy' and ask if you want me to scratch your belly or behind your ears, but I think I've had enough of you mutts for one evening. You can leave now."

Jackson growls in anger and glares at Stiles; he pushes back the plastic, _uncomfortable as hell_ plastic chair, and stalks out of the room. He doesn't leave, not just because Derek tells him not to, but because in some weird way Jackson understands. He understands the need to push everyone away so no one can see just how vulnerable you really are. So he sits with his back against the wall outside of Stiles' room and listens to the boy cry himself to sleep.

"_Derek, stop!" Scott pulls at Derek's arm, the one currently pressed across Jackson's windpipe, but he shoves Scott away easily. Derek glares at Jackson, eyes red, baring his teeth, and growling low in his throat. Jackson instantly stops struggling, whimpering a bit as the pain in his throat becomes unbearable and he has trouble breathing normally._

"_You will sit there, by his bed, until he wakes up. You will only move when Sheriff Stilinski tells you to move, and you won't _leave this hospital_ until I give you the say so, do you hear me?"_

_Jackson grunts in response, the only thing he can do from his position. Derek lets go and steps back._

"_Let's go, Isaac," Derek's eyes are soft when he turns and focuses them on Lydia. "Call if anything changes."_

* * *

"Do you need anything?" his dad asks from the doorway; his eyes are soft and warm, but his face as a whole looks like he's dead on his feet. It's three days since the incident, as his dad has taken to calling it when he's around him, but it's only been a few hours since the hospital released him into his father's care. Jonathan steps into the room, helping Stiles situate his pillows and pulls up his blankets so he's comfortable.

"No, dad," Stiles replies softly, forcing himself to smile as big as he can, which to be completely honest, wasn't much at all in the first place. "I'm fine." They sit in silence for a while, Stiles watches the clock on his bedside table while his father watches him.

"I love you, Stiles," he says and Stiles can feel his guilty heart hammering against the front of his chest.

"I—I love you, too, dad."

His father flicks off the light as he leaves; the soft click of his door echoing harshly in the dead silence of his bedroom. Stiles takes a shuddering, deep breath and waits until he hears the faint noises of his father's snoring before he kicks his covers back and crawls out of bed. He pads towards his bathroom, anxiety bubbling up from his stomach into his throat. His stomach lurches at the sight of the orange and white bottles on his bathroom counter, medicines for anxiety, Adderall, and something the doctor tells him will eventually help him sleep. He eyes them carefully, calculating the number of pills in his head.

Stiles can feel tiny little puppets perched on his eyebrows; they're pulling the invisible strings that are attached to his eyelids up and down like a hyperactive kid playing with a pair of window shades. He wants everything to stop hurting, and yet, somehow he doesn't _really_ want that that either.

_It's what you deserve, Stilinski._

The first thing Stiles registers as he lays on his bed, eyes heavy and breathing slow, body surrounded by orange and white bottles and so many scattered pills, is that Derek Hale is hopping down from his windowsill. He stops dead in his tracks, shocked in place at the sight before him, before he's scrambling to Stiles' side and checking his pulse.

He can feel Derek's hands slapping against his cheeks, trying to get him to stay awake. Even Stiles can feel that his own breathing is slowing; as a result Derek is panicking even more so than before.

"Wha's'rong, 'onkey Dong?" Stiles slurs with a snort. He tries to swat Derek's hands away, but he can't lift them off of the mattress.

"Oh god. _Stiles._ Come on; keep your eyes open. Don't do this, you _idiot_," Derek growls, wolf-like and angry, slapping Stiles' face again, but Stiles' eyes start to roll back and he gives him no response. "_Sheriff!_ Shit. Stiles. _SHERIFF!_"

Stiles finally lets his eyes drift shut, welcoming the blanket of darkness. He can vaguely hear his dad and Derek, both terrified and frantic. They sound like they're far away or underwater so he ignores them in favor of the little voice in the back of his head that sounds eerily like his own.

"Huh. So maybe you _are_ pack, after all."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN's are at A03. Enjoyizzle.**

He's been sleeping, _Lydia says sleeping because 'coma' isn't optimistic_, for four days. Lydia refuses to leave his side, except for when Sheriff Stilinski glares his big brown eyes at her, and even then Lydia huffs over and over again s she stomps out of the room. Jackson has taken refuge on a hard plastic chair outside of Stiles' room, playing the dutiful bodyguard that Derek had asked for. In his head he calls Stiles selfish and terrible and a whole slew of other names, but his heart aches in an odd way every time he does so. Lydia fixes him with a hurtful glare, and he _knows_ that somehow she knows what he's thinking. It's like she can see into the very bottom of his soul and can hear every thought he has.

Jackson shivers and swallows hard. _Maybe she can_.

Mr. Stilinski eyes him carefully when he leaves Stiles' room and holds the door open so Lydia can slip back inside.

He just wants Stiles to wake up, annoying, confusing, mouthy Stiles, so he can get back to his own life and his own girlfriend and his own friends and start to plan his revenge on Drew Stevens. It took a lot of yelling and a lot of Lydia smacking the back of his head, but Jackson finally understood—pack was pack, human or otherwise. Even though Jackson wasn't altogether thrilled with the idea, Stiles was—_is_—pack.

And _no one_ messes with Jackson Whittemore's pack.

* * *

"What I don't understand is why you were in my son's room, Mr. Hale."

"I can understand where you're coming from; why you're worried that he's spending any amount of time in my presence, but Sheriff Sti—"

"_No_, Derek. You don't get to decide why I'm worried. My son has been pushed around for the better half of this school year, and I'm only just finding out _why_. Not to mention that there are supernatural beings running around _my_ town, and that my son has been keeping this a secret from me. While I'm concerned that he's been spending time with a considerably dangerous group of people, I'm more worried that my son was suffering in silence when the people around him could have been helping."

"And had I known, I promise you I would have done something to stop it," Derek pauses, clearly upset, but Jonathan can't tell with who. "And I should have known."

"I don't even want to know, do I?" Jonathan sighs. "I appreciate that you're concerned, and while I'm grateful that you were worried enough to check on him—I am—I just want to know_ why_."

"We weren't a fan of each other when we first met." Jonathan snorts loudly, but Derek chooses to ignore him. "We've grown to become friends. Sort of. Regardless of whether or not Scott is part of my park, Stiles _is. _He's not stupid, even if he sometimes does stupid things. He's loyal. I can't say that about a lot of the other people I know in this town. When one of our pack is hurting, when one of _my pack_ is hurting, I can feel it too. My bones ache and my chest tightens like I'm feeling their pain. It isn't as strong for the other betas, but they can feel it too." Jonathan can only glare, the obvious statement not even needing to be said. "Which is why we should have known something was wrong."

"You're damn right you should have," Jonathan growls out before he realizes that he's even doing it. "I don't want to hear that Drew Stevens is missing a limb. Or dead. Do you hear me? I don't like this kid anymore than you do right now, but you leave this damn mess to me and the rest of the station."

Derek nods tersely, "I'll talk to the rest of my pack."

Jonathan sighs, "I know that kid has a mind of his own, and I love him for it, but he's not going to be near any of this werewolf stuff for a while. You keep him out of all of this."

"Absolutely, Sheriff," says and for once the two agree on _something_.

"You're welcome to visit him. If my permission was what you were waiting for, you have it. I'd rather you two not spend any time together, but—" Jonathan sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "—my son is not the best at listening to what others want."

Derek laughs, and Jonathan thinks it may be the first time he's seen him _smile_ since he was a little kid. Before the fire. Before his entire family— "He has a unique way of worming himself into places where he doesn't belong." And Derek can feel the pull against his chest, his wolf clawing against his heart and lungs, begging to be let out.

Begging to be closer to Stiles.

* * *

Jackson finds Drew Stevens after football practice, alone and dressed in street clothes packing up his duffel bag in the locker room, and proceeds to trap him in the same closet that Stiles had been shoved so heartlessly into. He had planned to do more, terrorize him the same way Drew had terrorized Stiles, but a cease and desist text from Derek, of all people, halted his plans. He hightails it back to the hospital to find Danny and Lydia sitting on opposite sides of Stiles' bed, talking about the things they did together before—before Drew, before _everything_. They're keeping it light and funny—_if you can't think positive while you're in this room then you'll have to leave,_ Allison says the first afternoon they all gather around his bed; she has to shove Scott out of the room first because he looks like a blubbering, mopey mess and Jackson overhears the angry pep talk she gives him in the hallway.

Jackson stops in the doorway to Stiles' room; his heart clenches uncomfortably. "Raisin." Lydia looks up at him oddly. "His mom used to make us chocolate chip and raisin cookies."

"How did you—" Danny starts, furrowing his eyebrows together in genuine confusion, and Jackson finds Lydia beaming at him. "That wasn't in any of the pictures Lydia has."

Jackson shakes his head and blinks back the wetness in his own eyes, "I don't know where that came from."

Lydia rolls her eyes and turns to talk to a still very unconscious Stiles, "See? I told you he'd remember. Of course he can't remember our anniversary, but suddenly he can remember that your mom made the best raisin chocolate chip cookies. You're missing all of the Jackson-is-being-_shockingly_-nice-to-everyone action, Stiles. Please wake up."


	5. Chapter 5

Meh. I'm still unhappy with this. Something isn't sitting right with the ending, but it needed to be done so I could write the next few chapters. I hope the reason I didn't add the Sheriff/Derek convo part in last chapter is evident here.

* * *

Jackson tosses and turns; he hasn't had a good nights sleep since Lydia had called him at three in the morning screaming about Stilinski and pills and hospitals. Jackson is angry with so many people, more so than usual, that he can't even see straight. If it weren't for Danny's gentle hand on his back guiding him to and from class he would be holed up in his bedroom staring blankly at his wall.

"Are you going to see him today?" Danny asks, eyes and voice soft and low.

Jackson only shrugs, leaning against his best friend for support as they sit through another boring lecture in Chemistry, "What's the point? He's not awake and he probably can't hear any of us."

But now Jackson is restless in a way that he can't even describe. His legs won't stop twitching, and he silently wonders if this is how Stilinski feels every time he is awake. When he finally reaches out and grasps ahold of the darkness in front of him Jackson falls into a restless and uneasy sleep. In his dream Jackson's wolf is chasing a small, six-year-old Stiles; the little boy is running as fast as his legs can take him. Stiles is darting through the trees, zigzagging from one to the other as if it'll actually help confuse Jackson's sent. Instead it makes Jackson's wolf angrier, and as he's closing in on the younger version of Stiles he can hear the little boy screaming for help.

Except Stiles isn't screaming for his mother or father or even Derek, but the six-year-old Stiles is screaming for _Jackson_ to help him. Stiles pulls further and further away from him, and it's like he's magically disappearing into the woods. Silence washes over Jackson as he stops and swings around in circles. Stiles isn't anywhere in sight, and just as suddenly Jackson is transported back to Stiles' bright, white hospital room. Mr. Stilinski and a group of doctors and nurses are surrounding his bed. Mr. Stilinski is crying while the doctor continually repeats the same phrase over and over again.

"He'll never wake up. He'll never wake up. He'll never wake—"

"Up!" Lydia smacks Jackson right out of his dream when she pushes him off of his mattress, bed covers and all. "Wake up, Jackson, we're going to be late for school if you don't get your ass moving. Jesus, what were you dreaming about? I stood here shaking you for ten minutes."

* * *

The nurse opens the door for Derek with a polite smile and shows him how to work the remote and call buttons. He's grateful for the explanation, but he's hoping he won't need to use any of it. "Visiting hours will be over soon, but I'll send someone in when the time gets closer, okay?"

Derek nods to show his understanding, but doesn't say anything more as he watches her leave. He eyes Stiles for a moment; he looks more and more pale every time he comes to visit him.

"Your father is working," Derek says as he's pulling a chair to Stiles' bedside. "I don't think he likes any of this." Derek cringes at his own words. "Of course he doesn't like _any_ of this—you being here, me, Scott being werewolves, you being involved in any sort of dangerous activity. This is where you jump in and say 'I think this is the most you've said to me in weeks, Derek.'" But Stiles doesn't move, and Derek drops his hand onto Stiles'. "The thing is—what your dad still doesn't understand is that regardless, regardless of everything, Stilinski, you are a hero to us. _You_ keep the pack together and sane. I'm—" Derek smiles. "—you're going to be so angry that you're not awake for this Stiles—I'm sorry we didn't notice before. I'm sorry we didn't know or see that something was wrong. We were _so_ wrong."

"Mr. Hale?" the nurse smiles at him and he sighs. "I'll give you just a few more minutes to say goodbye for the evening."

"Your dad will be here in the morning, Stiles. And Lydia and Allison. They've been keeping you up on the gossip at school and within the pack, and I think it's what's holding them together so do m—do them a favor and wake up."

He glances down at the boy once more before he exits the room; the wolf inside of him scratches and claws at his skin, begging and pleading to stay, but Derek stays in complete control of his emotions and feelings and leaves the hospital. Despite what his wolf thinks, he has an entire pack outside of Stiles to think of and they're hurting just as much as he is.

* * *

_He slides to a halt, slamming into the door and finds his son on the floor with Derek Hale of all people hovering over his lifeless body._

"_He's not breathing!"_

"_What did you do? Derek, what did you do?"_

_Derek shakes his head, eyes tearing up when he turns to the Sheriff, "I—I didn't. He took it!" He thrusts the empty bottles of pills towards the Sheriff and starts chest compressions on Stiles._

"_Oh god, Stiles," he fumbles for his cellphone, gives it to Derek, and takes over CPR. "Call 911. Damn it, son, don't do this."_

* * *

The second time Derek visits that week he drags a nervous Isaac with him.

"Isaac's here too," Derek says to an unconscious Stiles and shoots Isaac an undecipherable look before taking a seat by Stiles' bedside. "Your nurse told us there was no change."

Isaac's looking at him as if someone has stolen Derek and left them with this pod person in Derek's skin instead. But Derek rolls his eyes at the younger boy and motions for him to say something, _anything_, "Uh… hi Stiles." Derek glares, and there's his alpha, grumpy and not at all the cheerful man who had first entered the room. "Scott says hi! He's—he's with Deaton. Working. He'll probably—" Isaac sighs. "—this is weird. I can't just talk to someone who won't talk back. He _always_ talks back."

"Scott's mom said that he could hear us," Derek says softly, and it suddenly it all makes sense for Isaac—if they give him a reason to wake up, if they keep talking to him, then maybe he'll try harder to come back to them.

"We're lost without you, man. Scott's lost without you," Isaac says, uncomfortably, after a long moment of silence. "I don't think Lydia is cut out for Google and searching the Internet for vague supernatural things." Derek snorts, but doesn't smile. Isaac, however, grins and ignores the glare that Derek shoots him when he says, "Even though he won't admit it, I think Derek misses your constant chatter."

They sit in silence, the only sounds being their own breathing and the machines that are keeping Stiles alive and comfortable. When Isaac excuses himself from the room to grab a coffee and to call and check in on Erica, Derek leans forward and wraps his hand around Stiles' and squeezes, "He's an idiot; I don't miss your constant chatter, but I do miss telling you to shut up."

He moves to pull away his hand before Isaac comes back and sees them this close, but there's a squeeze and Derek's eyes dart up to Stiles'. They're still closed, but Stiles' fingertips squeeze and press against the palm of Derek's hand.

"We're right here, Stiles," Derek says and squeezes back. "We're not going anywhere."

When he tells the nurse later she doesn't seem surprised but smiles softly and says simply, "That can happen sometimes." The sheriff returns and takes his and Isaac's place by Stiles' bed; Derek tells him (despite Isaac's incredulous look that _Derek Hale_ was holding _Stiles Stilinski's_ hand, regardless of the situation) about Stiles responding, and the man looks a bit relieved at the news. Derek leaves his untouched coffee (and the sandwich Isaac had brought for him) for the sheriff and hopes that by taking care of Stiles' dad that he is in some way taking care of Stiles.

* * *

"_Why were you in my home?" Jonathan is standing behind him, arms loosely at his side. The hospital smells of death, and it burns at Derek's nose the second he steps into the building. He'd watched as the ambulance took Stiles, now breathing thanks to the Sheriff, and Jonathan Stilinski away before calling the rest of his pack. "Why were you anywhere near my son? How did you know—?"_

"_There are things Stiles has been keeping from you. To keep you safe."_

_Jonathan laughs humorlessly, "And who has been keeping my son safe? What things?"_

"_There are things that you don't understand about this town, Sheriff. The animal attacks weren't mountain lions."_

"_From the evidence we've gathered that much is obvious. You're involved."_

"_Yes."_

"_Scott, Stiles, the runaways as well?" Derek nods. "How? Don't you dare lie to me, Derek, or I'll have you in a cell so fast that you—"_

"_Werewolves," Derek says and swallows the lump in his throat. "Sir."_

"_Did you not just hear what I—"_

_Derek can feel himself shifting before he even has a moment to think about the consequences and what he's doing. When the Sheriff steps backwards at the sight of him, he shifts back to his human form and steps forward, "Scott was bitten by my uncle, and that's how Stiles is involved in this mess. Lydia, Jackson, my uncle Peter, my sister, the fire that killed my— it's been because the hunters and the werewolves have been fighting each other. He's been—he's been a good friend, and we can't say the same in return. I'm sorry we should have—"_

"_Werewolves," Sheriff sinks down onto a chair in the empty family waiting room and sighs. "I probably wouldn't have believed him even if he told me anyways."_

"_He hated keeping this from you; that much I know. You're going to be in more danger now that you know, but—if it helps Stiles at all, that you know—we'll do our best to protect you, too. I promise."_

* * *

When Derek returns to the Hale House he hears the rustling of people, Erica and Boyd he assumes, inside, but Jackson's scent is what confuses him. He stops off in the kitchen to find Erica cooking, and without having to even _ask_ she points in the direction of the stairs, "Jackson stopped by a while ago. He looked upset."

Derek climbs the stairs, weary after an entire day spent by Stiles' side, and finds Jackson curled into a ball on Derek's bed rather than in the room they had set aside just for Jackson.

* * *

"You're a terrible person."

"M-Mrs. Stilinski?" Jackson steps back, pressing into the wall behind him. She stands before him paler than the last time he saw her, but she still has the long blonde hair he remembers so well. She's surrounded by a soft, glowing light and looks angelic standing before him.

"I thought I could trust you. I thought you would take care of my boy, but you—"

"I didn't."

"You didn't! You didn't!" she mocks, her pale face now flush red with anger and betrayal. "You _didn't_. You should be the one in that bed, _not my baby boy._"

Jackson gapes at her, "I didn't _know_. I'm s—"

She reaches out a hand to strike him, but her face transforms into Derek's and his hand shakes Jackson's shoulder, "Jackson." He blinks, twice, to rid himself of the nightmare and the tears. Derek places a hand on his shoulder, comforting and steadying, as he helps Jackson into a sitting position. He gives him a moment to readjust to his surroundings before he asks, "Are you okay?"

"I—" Jackson swallows thickly, and brushes off Derek's hand. "_Fine_."

"Right. And the shaking and the tears?"

Erica appears at the door before both can respond and tells them that dinner will be ready soon and asks about Stiles.

"The Sheriff hasn't called," Derek says, eyes focused on the floor. "Nothing new."

"Come down when you guys are ready," she says softly and Derek is grateful that she doesn't mention Jackson being in his room or how upset he looks.

"She sent me up here," Jackson says as if reading Derek's mind. "She said the scent of an alpha would—" he shakes his head and laughs bitterly. "Whatever."

"You were calmer as soon as I came in," Derek grunts, standing and crossing his arms over his chest. "It's not about my _scent_. It's about my presence."

Jackson sits for a moment, contemplating what he wants to say, "I had a dream about Stiles." Derek raises his eyebrows in response, but doesn't interrupt him. "I don't understand it, but I just—I don't _know_, Derek, okay?"

Derek turns him back to Jackson and closes his eyes; "We all take some sort of fault in this, Jackson. We should have done more to protect Stiles, supernatural or otherwise. We'll _fix this_ when he wakes up."

"_If he_—"

"_When_ _he wakes up."_

Jackson pushes back the covers; "We should get downstairs before Erica starts throwing a tantrum." He stops at the door and turns back. "Why do you even care? I get that you're protecting your pack, but Stiles isn't—you've never given much thought of Stiles being a part of this pack before."

"You're right," Derek says, shoving Jackson playfully towards the kitchen as they make their way downstairs. "I am protecting my pack."


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry it's taken so long. Full author's notes are at AO3.

* * *

Stiles doesn't wake up like in the movies that Jackson has seen. His eyes don't flutter open gracefully and he's not chattering away asking about what has happened or where he is. He does, however, squeeze Jackson's hand and it's the first sign that something has changed for the first time in days. He can hear Stiles' heart beat, steady and strong, as he groans awake, but his eyes don't open right away.

The nurse is slow to get to Stiles' room and Jackson is kind of terrified at being alone with him. He half expects Scott or Derek to come stumbling in half wolfed out in excitement over Stiles being awake, but the first person he sees is Melissa McCall. Jackson doesn't register anything she says, because Stiles is _squeezing his fingers_, but he knows it's soft and soothing because despite her hard ass personality Mrs. McCall is a pretty damn good nurse.

Jackson realizes that she's trying to get his attention when she reaches over to squeeze his arm. Stiles is staring up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused and confused, but he's awake and moving and hasn't tried to move his hand away from Jackson's.

Mrs. McCall asks several questions, but Stiles blinks through it with genuine confusion so she pats his forearm softly and goes to find his doctor. When Jackson tries to pull away to follow her, Stiles latches onto his hand even harder.

"Do you know who I am?" Jackson asks tentatively. It's weird holding Stilinski's hand, but for a moment something stabs at his chest that tells him this feel right, that he should be here.

Stiles blinks for several seconds before answering with an oddly affectionate, "Idiot."

Jackson snorts, "You've been hanging around Lydia too much, Stilinski."

"D-dad?"

"Derek made him go home to shower and change. He was starting to smell like rotting eggs, and none of our noses wanted to smell that anymore," Jackson says with a smile, but Stiles just looks confused. "You should rest; we'll explain it later, okay?"

"Don't-" Stiles' eyes fill with tears and he swallows hard.

Jackson squeezes Stiles' hand gently and shakes his head, "I'll be right here."

* * *

Stiles comes to again with the lights dimmed and finds his father sitting on the chair next to his bed; his feet are propped up next to his on the mattress and he's thumbing through a manila folder with his eyebrows furrowed together and a pained expression on his face.

"_Dad_," Stiles says and smiles tiredly. "You're here."

Jonathan is instantly at his side, smiling too, "Hey. How're you feeling?"

"Tired."

"You've been sleeping a lot the past few weeks so I'm not surprised. Are you in any pain?" he asks and Stiles shakes his head.

"Was I dreaming or has Jackson been here?" Stiles asks and Jonathan helps him adjust the bed so he's sitting up a bit more.

Jonathan snorts, "Between him and Derek, I'm not sure who was here the most."

"That's—" Stiles stares at his dad for a moment. "—mildly disturbing. Why are you not freaking out? You're not freaking out. Why are you not freaking out? What do you know? What don't you know? Oh god. Oh _god_, Derek was here? _Derek? Derek Hale? _Oh god, dad, whatever he told you—"

"That werewolves are real; that he, Jackson, the runaways, and Scott are all werewolves? That the Argents are some kind of supernatural hunters? You were out for a while, Stiles, and I've had a lot of questions in that time."

"I'm sorry. I'm still stuck on you saying werewolves. Wait. Wait did you ask Derek if vampires were actually a thing? Is that a question you had? Because that was a question _I _had and no one would answer it. Derek kept giving me that glare-y, shut up, I'm the alpha eyes and those are incredibly distracting, dad. I mean how hard is it to answer this one simple question, right? Are vampires real or not? It's not an overly complex question to answer, especially for someone who, up until a few years ago was technically a fictitious figure in itself. I just want to be prepared, because all I need is some garlic and maybe I should start to learn how to whittle a wooden stake. Oh! Oh and what if garlic isn't actually a thing? Maybe wooden stakes don't work, and you know, then where would we all be? We'd have to come up with a _plan_, dad, and I can't do that if no one gives me a straight answer."

"God, it's good to hear your voice," Jonathan laughs and presses a kiss to the top of Stiles' head. "You keep running with your ideas. I'm going to go tell Scott and Melissa that you're awake again, okay? Scott's been pacing back and forth like a—"

"Like a dog, right?" Stiles grins up at his dad, almost in triumph. "See? I told them that they act like dogs, but do they believe me? Of course not, but they _should_. They should always listen to me."

* * *

The next time Stiles opens his eyes Lydia is seated next to his bed, the latest issue of Vogue spread across her lap, "I take offense when the first person you wake up to is _Jackson,_ Stiles. That is completely unacceptable." Lydia is smiling when she says it, and when she leans down to kiss Stiles' cheek he blushes the same shade of red lipstick that she's wearing. "I will forgive you, but only because I've been in that hospital gown and I have sympathy for anyone who is forced to wear those ugly rags."

"I love you, too?" Stiles says uncertainly, but her smile stays the same and she rolls her eyes affectionately instead of in annoyance.

She smacks his shoulder hard ("Ow, Lydia!") and points a finger in his face, "Don't you _ever_ do that to me again or I will hunt you down and castrate you, Stiles Stilinski, don't you dare think that I don't know how because I am _Lydia Martin._"

"I'm sorry, Lyd. Really. I never—I never wanted—"

"Well you will make it up to me, but that's _not_ what I want to talk about. Right now I want to know all about what's going on with you and Derek."

* * *

Stiles is awake for a half an hour watching some cheesy made for TV movie when Scott comes bounding into his hospital room with a bag of greasy food and a smile the size of Texas. It isn't the first time they've seen each other since Stiles has woken up, but it's the most relaxed they've both been in days. While they're best friends they never really talked about anything incredibly serious, at least not since Stiles' mother died and Scott's dad left town. Past that most of their conversations were light-hearted, even when they had involved Kanimas and Argents.

"I have curly fries and a cheeseburger bigger than my head," Scott lets the bag drop to the bedside table with a wet squelching sound and Stiles stares at it with a grimace. "I had to sneak it past my mom and the rest of the nurses so we'll have to eat it fast."

"What do you think Lydia means by 'you and Derek'?" Stiles asks before stuffing a healthy sized handful of curly fries into his mouth.

"What?"

"What? Exactly! What did she mean? There's no _me_ and Derek," Stiles exclaims, waving his arms around in the air and huffing at the accusation.

"There kind of is a you and Derek," Scott points out, literally pointing a fry out at Stiles who snatches half of it away from him. "He saved your life."

"He only did that because I saved his paralyzed ass from drowning, and he's too much of a dick to say a simple thank you."

"It's because you're pack, Stiles, not because he's returning a favor."

"Stop being so smart. It's really freaking me out. And that is such crap and you know it. I'm not, nor have I ever been, pack."

Scott winces at the words, and presses down the instinct to growl at his best friend, "He _said_ that you were pack. Derek got angry and practically took Jackson's head off when he said that you weren't. I'm—I'm really sorry if we made you feel like you weren't, because you are. And if you don't consider yourself a part of Derek's then you're a part of mine."

"But _you're_ part of Derek's pack," Stiles says, narrowing his eyes at his best friend.

Scott grins, "Exactly."

* * *

The last time Stiles wakes up in a hospital bed, the last night before he's released and allowed to go home, it's dark outside. There's a soft light shining through the small window next to the door of his room, so Stiles knows that the nurses are still out there working despite the late hour, but his view to the outside world is pitch black. He can see his reflection in the window; he has bags under his eyes and he looks like he hasn't eaten in a week. They keep promising to let him take a shower, but so far they've been putting it off the entire week.

"You are pack," a voice says from the shadows and when Derek leans forward Stiles can see that he's been sitting on the chair beside Stiles' bed for a while.

"_Jesus_—"

"You _are_ pack."

They stare at each other for a long, quiet moment until Stiles simply says, "Okay."

"You're important to m—the pack."

"_Okay._"

"Don't ever do that again."

Stiles sighs, "Lydia already scolded me yesterday, Derek."

Derek just glares at him, eyebrows furrowed and looking angry. He stands and grabs his leather jacket off the back of the chair and moves to the door.

"Derek, I—" Derek stops, but doesn't turn to face Stiles. "—thank you. I don't think I've—" Stiles shakes his head and sighs, "Thank you."

Stiles watches Derek leave without a word, and then falls back against the pillows behind him.


End file.
